


As The World Falls Down

by mindy_makru_tutu



Category: Ashes to Ashes (UK TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindy_makru_tutu/pseuds/mindy_makru_tutu
Summary: No one can avoid the inevitable forever. Not even Gene Hunt.





	As The World Falls Down

**Author's Note:**

> Title and first two sets of lyrics are from the 1986 film “Labyrinth” starring David Bowie. (For those who don’t know/remember, it’s about a girl who ventures into a fantastical underworld and finds herself torn between her commitment to a child and her attraction to the menacing but seductive ruler of The Underground. I mention it because, you know, parallels.) The final set of lyrics are by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, from a song performed by Herb Alpert.

 

 _There's such a sad look deep in your eyes_  
_A kind of pale jewel, open and closed_  
_Within your eyes, I’ll place the sky within your eyes._

 _There's such a fooled heart beating so fast_  
_In search of new dreams, a love that will last,_  
_Within your heart, I'll place the moon within your heart._

 _As the pain sweeps through, makes no sense for you_  
_Every thrill has gone, wasn't too much fun at all_  
_But I'll be there for you, as the world falls down_  
_Falling, as the world falls down, falling in love…_

It takes three years for her to work her way up the ladder.

She’s done it before. In the real world. So this time, it’s easier. She does the overtime, collects the commendations, hits each milestone with fearless precision. She wears the right suits, shakes the right hands, espouses the right politics. Her approach is slightly more unorthodox now, inspired by her time in limbo. But she plays the game – or makes sure she is seen to be playing the game. Because that’s what’s going to get her where she wants to go.

Her single-mindedness is made easier by the fact that, as a confirmed dead person, she doesn’t get tired. It’s one of the few virtues of the new world she’s found herself in. She doesn’t need to sleep, she doesn’t need to change her clothes or fix her hair. There’s no room for imperfection in this world, which occasionally makes her want to scream aloud. Clutch her head and cry at the top of her lungs. Alex doesn’t scream. She takes her frustration and channels it – into her work, into finding that next rung on the ladder leading out.

Within a year, she is granted field work and she uses this added agency to visit Molly. It’s taken a while and will take a while longer, but her daughter is slowly starting to pick herself up and move on with her life. Her little girl is not so little anymore. Molly has stopped visiting her grave every day after school. She’s settled into a new routine with Evan, Bryan, Marjorie and even Pete and Judy surrounding and supporting her. She’s got a boyfriend who Alex is only mildly suspicious of. He reminds her of all the boys she used to date – all the swishy-haired, pretty, safe boys whose initials she’d doodle on her tartan pencil case.

In her fantasies, they were so dashing, so dangerous and charming. In reality, she was disappointed to find them as dull as day-old dishwater. She wishes she could whisper in Molly’s ear, tell her not to repeat her mother’s mistakes. She wishes she could nudge her into giving a chance to the slouchy, portly, sandy-haired teen who always kept his distance at the tube station, grimacing every time she glanced his way. She’s pretty sure that kid would give his right arm for a kind word from her daughter. He’d probably hurl himself in front of the train if it meant Molly would smile at him.

She can’t tell Molly any of this though. She can’t impart life lessons she never learned in her own short lifetime. She can only do small things for her. Like momentarily interrupt the electricity flow when she touches a socket with her wet hand. Like generate a noise to distract her when she’s about to step out in front of a car. One day, when trailing Molly on a school trip, she saves a whole busload of kids when the breaks on the vehicle fail. No one in the real world ever knows that it was she who averted potential disaster but her heroic act garners considerable attention in her world. She’s promptly promoted and given a team to watch over and command.

She requests Shaz be seconded to her team and immediately places Molly under her jurisdiction. Children of the deceased receive automatic protection until they reach full adulthood. As her mother, Alex can’t be her official guardian but she can assign and oversee her protection. Her field work gives her ample opportunities to visit Molly herself, and anything she can’t be there for, Shaz keeps her apprised of. Each night, they chat as they stroll down the street to The Railway Arms. Their strong shared work ethic ensures that they are always the last to arrive. Ray and Chris will already have claimed a corner table and got the drinks in. They’ll be halfway through an argument over football or a packet of crisps or both. Viv often joins them. And Sam and Annie, though they must leave early to look after the children in their charge. Children can’t be born in their world but they exist in heartbreaking numbers. Looking after these children is Annie’s work. Watching over their still living parents is Sam’s. Both are happy working for Children’s Services in their different capacities. Just as Ray is happy to have landed a position with the Defence Department and Chris is ecstatic to be assigned to the low-stress arena of guarding top-ranking sports stars.

They don’t often talk of Gene. But they don’t avoid the topic either. Alex is glad of both, and appreciative, if a little squeamish, when uncertain looks are darted her way at the mention of their old Guv’s name. She never tells the ever-popular Gene Hunt tales herself but she does love listening to them – both the ones she was there for and the ones she wasn’t. She loves the reminders as much as she loves the extra puzzle pieces. And she laughs as hard as anyone when Ray or Chris stands up, imitating his resolute stance and gravelly voice. No one ever glances at the door during these reminiscences, no one ever expects him to walk in, join them, chastise them for cracking jokes at his expense. They know him too well for that. A toast is always launched in his name, nearly empty glasses clunk as drunken eyes drop in a moment of silence.

Afterwards, Shaz always asks if she’s okay, offers to walk her home. Alex declines. She doesn’t mind the memories or being alone with them. They’re what sustain her, and those nights in the pub only help dust them off, make them shine a little brighter in her mind. Time and distance can do their worst. Because whenever she thinks she might have forgotten the smokey-whiskey smell of him or the pattern on his favourite tie or the exact intonation of his voice when he’d grit _Bolly_ , her friends remind her. Or her dreams do. She doesn’t need to sleep but she lets herself slip into unconsciousness every so often. Because her dreams take her back there, back to his world, back to him. As soon as she shuts her eyes, she’s walking down those well-known corridors, corridors that feel more like home than any place in her current world does. She pushes through the swinging doors just like she never left, stalks past her old desk. She sees him through the glass, slumped in his chair, snakeskin boots propped on the desktop. He flicks through a file, sips at his drink and looks up when she steps into his office.

She’s coming back, she tells him – she’s working on it, as hard as she knows how. She tells him to wait for her, not to forget her. She tells him they have unfinished business to attend to. She tells him with a crack in her voice that she’s sorry, so sorry. Gene Hunt always looks at her, inscrutable blue eyes glinting in the lamplight. He looks at her but never opens his mouth, never speaks back. In her dreams, Alex takes a breath, steps closer to his desk and begs him to blame her all he wants but – please, _please_ – never forget her. Because she’s coming back to him. She promises. Just as soon as she possibly can.    
      

* * *

   
_No one can blame you for walking away._  
_Too much rejection, no love injection._  
_Life can't be easy, it's not always swell._  
_Don't tell me truth hurts, little girl, 'cause it hurts like hell._

 _But down in the underground, you'll find someone true._  
_Down in the underground, a land serene, a crystal moon._  
_It's only forever, not long at all._  
_Lost and lonely, that's underground_  
_Underground…_

 

He sits at his desk and sulks.

That’s what she’d say he was doing anyway. She’d waggle her way into his inner sanctum, loll against his bookshelf or prop her scrawny derriere on one corner of his desk. She’d look down at him with an arched brow before pulling in a breath and telling him in her fine china accent exactly what was wrong with him. _You’re sulking_ , she’d tell him, _you’re acting like a big ole baby when you’ve got work to do, a purpose to fulfil here._

In his mind, he tells her to shut up. She can’t talk about work and purpose when she left him here alone. He likes to forget about all the reasons she had to go, all the reasons he told her to go. He likes to forget about her begging him to let her to stay. Easier to be angry. Much easier to blame her for her desertion after she bloody joined him in toasting the two of them on countless bloody occasions. _You and me, Bolly, you and me._ By clinking her glass with his, he thought she understood – they were in this thing together. He was the Daddy Bear and she was the Mummy Bear, looking after all the little kiddie bears running amok in their charge. He’s never had someone to share that burden with. Never wanted someone to. But he misses it now, isn’t sure how to do the job he thought was second nature.     

So yes, maybe he did need a sneaky drink, a little thinking time after everyone else had turned out their lamps and clocked off – what of it? Maybe he needed a bit of peace and blinking quiet just to get his head screwed on proper after she turned him all around, turned him into a different man, a man he hardly recognises anymore. He goes through his paces. He gets the job done. He doesn’t much like his new recruit but that’s nothing new. He didn’t like Sam at first and he hated the very sight of the psychologically inclined D.I. Drake. Except for how he didn’t. And anyway, these things change. He doesn’t know why they change but they bloody-well do. He isn’t handing this change well though. He knows that.

He doesn’t let anyone sit at her desk or answer her phone. He keeps her name plaque in his desk drawer, taking it out and staring at it as he downs tumbler after tumbler of whiskey. He mutters to her under his breath, turns to meet her eyes, hear her voice in interviews. At least twice a day, he thinks he sees her walking down a street. But it’s always just some woman wearing a big grey coat and red heels. Some bird with a perm and a white leather jacket slung over her bare shoulder. It’s never the dead woman he wants it to be. It’s never Alex Drake.

He figures he’ll forget about her. Eventually. That’s how this gig works. If the booze doesn’t make it happen then time will eventually take care of the empty pit of a chest he wakes up with every damn day. He both wants it to happen and dreads it. Remembering her eyes, how they’d sometimes look at him, remembering how close the two of them came, it makes him want to throw things, crush stuff with his bare hands. It makes him want to destroy this place that he used to think was the whole universe. Until she came. Until she came, dismantled it then buggered off again. Left him behind knowing that there was more out there, more that he’d never have.

He pours himself another drink, spilling some on his desktop. His head is spinning nicely, he’s feeling good and tipsy. He tilts back in his chair, props his boots on the corner of his desk and glares out over his kingdom. He tells himself he drinks to help the forgetting but actually he drinks to keep remembering. Which is why he doesn’t do it down at the pub with the rest of the lads. He doesn’t like their new joint anyway. He doesn’t like the prissy little guy behind the bar or the constant noise from the sports station. He doesn’t like the prices or the seats or the company. He prefers to stay and stare at that outer door, imagining her walking through it. Imagining her fixing her green-eyed gaze on him, hips swaying as she makes her way toward him with a singular purpose. That purpose no doubt being to mess with his head. To tell him he was wrong about something. To yell at him for being a bastard or a coward or some fucking fancy term he’d never heard of before. He’d about give his left arm for that to happen right now. Not his right arm, obviously. That’s his shooting hand, he needs that hand. But the left one he’d kiss goodbye with a wink and a smile if it meant one more clash with old Bolly-Kecks. Especially if heated words devolved into some clothes-free wrestling on his desktop.

Gene sniffs and peers into the bottom of his glass, swirling the amber liquid round before sipping. He reckons he could bear it if he’d been left with some of his team, even one of them. But losing his team, his partner, his car and his boozer all in one fell swoop – not even Gary Cooper could take that. Keats thought it would break him. And he was trying real hard not to be broken. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be broken by it, not twenty-three hours out of the day. For twenty-three hours out of every day he’d play his part. He’d drive his swank new Merc. He’d wield his unlocked weapon. He’d tackle bastards and sidestep corruption and whip his lackeys into line. He’d make sure they worked through whatever they needed to work through so they could enter that door to the other side. A door he’d never walk through, a door that for all he knew led to paradise and the woman he loved. Twenty-three hours a day he’d do his duty, he’d serve his endless time. But the leftover minutes of the day were all his. To brood, to mourn, to remember and forget. To think about the friends he misses and lover he almost had.

For those final fifty-something minutes of each day, he will sit and he will drink. And he will sulk if he damn well wants to. Because there’s no one round to stop him. No one here anymore who cares about the empty chasm beneath the formidable façade of the great Gene Hunt. So a flagon of his finest whiskey and passing out at his desk it is. The ghost Alex Drake be damned. She can say whatever she wants about him. She’s only a ghost. He mutters it to himself as he shoves away his glass and reaches for the bottle instead. _Say what you want, Bols, you’re just a bloody ghost…_

He’s still muttering to her when he wakes. It feels like only a moment has passed but the sun angles through the blinds onto his face and he can smell the freshly brewing coffee that’s been started by the new plonk at Granger’s desk. Coffee. Fucking uncivilised bastards. A couple of the new brood are standing over him, muttering about whether to wake him and asking each other what the hell a Bolly is. His backbone crackles and his brain swooshes in his skull as he starts to straighten, a threat forming on his bone-dry lips. The newbies anticipate the threat and simply drop something on his desk, saying a messenger delivered it. They scatter before he can verbally eviscerate them or order them to fetch him a strong, sweet tea and some aspirin as quick as if their lives depended on it, which they may well do.

His threat dies though and his eyes crack open a little wider when they land on the delivery that Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dumb-dumb have brought in. Gene blinks at it, turns the label to face him. There’s a note stuck to the neck, a simple white card. He stands, opens it, blinks his vision into focusing and reads. He looks up, scans the office and the outside corridors. Then he reads the note again:

 _Luigi’s. 6:20pm._  
_Don’t be late._  
_xo_

He puts the note down, eyes the bottle, then picks up the note again. He reads it, pockets it. It’s not her writing. And Luigi’s is all boarded up, he knows it for a fact. He’s walked past the place on more than one melancholy occasion, wishing he could go back in time. Wishing he could walk down the stairs into the warm, tomato-ey atmosphere and shout his friends a round. He picks up the bottle and examines it from its golden tip to its fancy seal to the bold letters that spell out: BOLLINGER.

Granger’s replacement enters and starts telling him about a case, a snatch and grab gone bad on the corner of Brook Drive and Hayles Street. But he’s already heading for the door. Screw waiting ‘til 6:20. He’s going now. He has to find out, he’s not spending all day wondering. Hoping. Could be— he doesn’t know what it could be. Could be anything. Nothing. A trick. He unhooks his coat from the rack, glances round his office, runs a hand through his unkept hair. He grabs his keys. Doubles back, grabs the bottle of Bolly. Then brushes by the plonk on his way out the door.      

* * *

   
_You see this guy, this guy's in love with you_  
_Yes, I'm in love, who looks at you the way I do?_  
_When you smile, I can tell, we know each other very well_  
_How can I show you I'm glad I got to know you 'cause_  
  
_I've heard some talk they say you think I'm fine_  
_Yes, I'm in love and what I'd do to make you mine_  
_Tell me now, is it so? Don't let me be the last to know_  
_My hands are shakin', don't let my heart keep breaking 'cause_  
  
_I need your love, I want your love_  
_Say you're in love, in love with this guy_  
_If not I'll just die…_

The place is definitely alive. Wooden boards have been pried off the lower windows and lie discarded on the pavement. The bins have been put out for collection, overflowing with rubbish. Spent barrels and crates of bottles line the street. The bright red awning is back in place. A delivery van pulls up and a man trots down the steps to deliver a long tray of fresh bread. He can smell it from across the street, it smells exactly as he remembers.

Gene lifts his gaze, looks up at the window that used to be hers. The curtains have been drawn back, he’s sure they weren’t in that position the last time he visited. He remembers heading up there after she left, sifting through her flat like it was a crimescene. The tape they had danced to was still in the machine. The sheets on her bed were rumpled, the bed they never shared abandoned unmade. Her wine was in the kitchen, her perfume in the bathroom. Traces of her, everywhere.

He found a notebook, squirrelled away on a bookshelf. His name in her writing. That relentless brain of hers trying desperately to unravel the mystery of his world and her place in it. There were endless tapes of her voice, boxes of them, beginning with her arrival in 1981. He sat on her couch and listened to them all. At first, she was prolific, determined, speaking every night to her faraway daughter. Then confusion set in, forgetfulness took over. Her entries became less frequent, more garbled. The name constantly on her lips was no longer her daughter’s but his. He almost felt guilty about that. He solved this by getting pissed on her leftover wine. And by tipping his head back and closing his eyes and concentrating more on the familiar drive and timbre of her voice than on whatever it was she was saying.

In her last recorded entry, she talked about him. And he could just see her, standing in the middle of the flat and gazing into the mid-distance, dictaphone held to her perfectly parted lips. _Gene_ , she’d said, and sighed. A long sigh, a long silence. Then a knock on the door sounded and the tape cut off. He’d almost jumped, thinking the knock existed in his reality rather than hers. That maybe it was her, coming to spring him, to tell him off for spying on her most intimate moments. He’d relaxed in his skin and rewound the tape, listening to his name on her tongue again, on her breath, and wondering what thought private Alex had been about to express. Listening to it a third time, he wondered whether it was him behind that intruding knock. Whether she’d opened the door to see him sagging against the frame with a bottle in one hand and glasses in the other. Ever hopeful, ever hungry but ever inept when it came to his infuriating DI.

He’d left the place just as it was. He didn’t pack up her clothes or throw out that blue stuff she used to put on her eyes. He took his jacket from the closet, the jacket she’d nicked and worn on her first day as part of his squad. He didn’t take any other mementos, he wouldn’t be reduced to such sentimental shit, not by anyone. He didn’t even take a last look around before closing and locking the door forever on Alex Drake. Or so he thought.

Gene lowers his gaze, watches the delivery man exit from the base of the building, jump in his van and drive away, radio blaring out the question _Why Can’t This Be Love?_. He shunts his fingers between each other, making sure his gloves are securely in place, ready to rumble. Collecting the bottle of Bolly from the roof of the Merc, he waits for two cars to speed by in opposite directions then crosses the street and heads down the steps into _Luigi’s_. The lights are on and Luigi’s favourite opera is playing over the stereo. He remembers the old man telling him about it one night when he was drunk enough not to resist. Was hard to follow, especially in his woozy state. Someone was in love with someone they couldn’t have. Someone was dying, someone was feeling betrayed, someone else was going to throw themselves off some battlements. Had fuck all to do with reality, if you asked him.                        

The music swells and a sound behind the bar draws his attention. He steps closer, leaning over the bar just as a dark little head pops up. The man is scrawny, dressed in black and white with his hair slicked back. As soon as he sees Gene, a wide smile splits across his face.

“ _Ciiiiaoooo_ —” 

“Who are you?”

The man simpers sympathetically. “I’m afraid we are not yet op—”

“Never mind that, ‘hoo the hell are you?”

He gives a little bow. “My name is Luigi—”

“No, it’s not. I know Luigi and you’re not ‘im.”

“Not _the_ Luigi, _signor,_ _a_ Luigi—”

“Shut up.” He holds up the bottle with the note attached. “Who sent me this, was it you?”

Little Luigi starts to frown. “The gentleman is confused—”

Gene grabs the slick little idiot by his shirtfront and hauls him close. “Not as confused as you’re gonna be. Now quit tittering and—”

“Please, _signore_ —” His hands lift and he starts to protest but a clear, cool voice intercedes.

“Ignore him, Luigi, he speaks like that to everyone.”

His grip loosens and his eyes shift over the shoulder of his hostage to find the figure that matches the voice. She stands on the threshold of the bar, one hip resting against the gate and a red and white chequered tea-towel dangling from her fingertips. She’s dressed in white – of course in white, a look that always gave her the air of both sinner and saint. A teeny red belt cinches the waist of the all-in-one pant-slash-blousey number she’s wearing. And red heels add height to legs that don’t need it. He releases baby Luigi, shoves him weakly away. Shifting on his feet and narrowing his eyes, Gene looks closer. Her hair falls in loose waves to her shoulders, wispy bits brushing perfectly arched brows. It’s lighter than before, more golden. And her face, her hips, all of her is fuller. She looks more like the voluptuous, bubbly Bolly that first swanned into his life than the sad, skeletal Alex that walked out of it.

She breaks his gaze, granting him one blessed moment to collect himself. Turning to her little Italian friend, she murmurs, “Why don’t you take your break now, Luigi?”

Luigi smooths his shirtfront with both hands, looking wounded. “ _Si_ , _signorina_ …”

She puts a hand on his wrist as he slinks by her. “Ah – make it a long one.”

He nods, “ _Si_ …” and heads off.

When her gaze turns back on him, Gene pulls himself up to his full height. “You...” His mouth shrugs, his hand grips the bottle of Bolly tight. “Thought I’d seen the last of you.”

Alex smiles slightly, her golden head tipping to one side. “You didn’t really think I was going to give up on you that easily, did you?”

He watches her move closer in her heels, tossing away the towel in her hand. “Just how many lives ‘ave you got?”

“I’m aiming for nine,” she purrs, green eyes glinting. “Like a cat.”

He gives a low hum as she reaches the bar and folds her arms, leaning back against the bench running perpendicular to the one he faces. Eyes dropping over her, he draws a breath in through his nose. “Death becomes you, Bols.” He pauses, nods, admits, “You look good.”

“Wish I could say the same,” she answers, examining him with pitying, amused eyes. “You look terrible.”

He sniffs and looks away. “Too many fags, too much booze and not enough sex. Speakin’ of—”

“Sex?”

“Booze.” He lifts the bottle of champagne and plomps it down on the bar. “ _Someone_ …sent me this. With an enigmatic note. Someone who obviously doesn’t know me well enough to know I bloody hate enigmatic notes.”

She picks up the bottle and inspects it with a small smirk. “And yet, you had the remarkable self-restraint not to instantly pop the cork and down the thing like a can of Tab. Are you sure you’re the same Gene Hunt I used to know and love?”

“Doubtful,” he grunts, propping both hands on the bar. “Anyway...can’t drink Bolly alone, Bolly.” He looks up at her from beneath his brows, lowering his voice to add, “And champers was always your drink, never mine.”

Alex holds his gaze a moment, smile fading. Then she pushes away from the bar, glancing at the mess surrounding her. “Well, we aren’t quite set up yet but…ah—” She finds some freshly washed glasses and reaches for the tea towel she discarded. Twisting the towel inside the flutes, she polishes two then she reaches for the bottle on the bar. “Allow me.”

He doesn’t help. He watches her, every move. As if the flick of her wrist, the purse of her lips, the carefully controlled force of her fingertips on the cork will explain her presence in his reality, her forever baffling existence. She smiles when the cork pops free and tips each glass as she fills them to the rim. He lifts his glass to hers but doesn’t propose their traditional toast. He waits for her to say the words, waits to see if she will.    

She meets his gaze over their fizzing glasses. “You and me.”

Christ. He’s a goner and he knows it. He clinks his glass with hers and repeats, “You and me...” He downs the whole thing then reaches for the bottle for a refill. “So. Not to be blunt and all but what in hell are you doin’ here? Aren’t you s’posed to be dead?”

“Aren’t we all?” Alex takes a delicate sip of her drink as she watches him refresh his. “I suppose you think you’re the only one noble enough to have a posthumous calling?”

He downs his second glass. “What d’you mean, calling? You on a job or somin’?”

“You might say I’ve landed a permanent position.”

Gene narrows his eyes at her, plonks his empty glass down. “You know this whole wiser-than-thou routine wasn’t that cute the first time round. What makes you think it’s gonna work on me this time?”

“Well, for one thing,” she begins, brandishing her glass with a superior air, “that’s utter rubbish because we both know that you _love it_ when I know more than you do and relish every drop of information that falls from my lips—”

“Do not. S’annoyin’.”

“And for another, in this case, I _do_ know more than you because, unlike you, I have bothered to go out and do a little investigation into how this world works. Or, really, I should say worlds—”

“World _s_?”

“Yes, there are three.” She blinks at him then takes the sort of breath that always used to precede either an edifying lecture or hassled invective. In this case, happily for him, it’s the former. “You see, there’s _this_ world, also known as The Underworld. The Overworld, where I have been for the past three years. And, what we like to call when we are in it, the “Real World”…”

She lifts both hands, managing to place invisible quotation marks in the air with her fingers while still clutching her champagne glass. Gene’s jaw twitches.

“…but what is commonly called in these parts, The Finite World.” She shrugs and adds as a perfectly formulated afterthought, “Of course, all these worlds _are_ real in a very certain sense and all have various versions – parallel universes, you might call them – but that’s not really relevant here.”

His brows flinch. “No?”

“No, see, all these worlds, much like the “real world”—”

He pours another drink when her fingers wiggle in the air again.

“—have systems, hierarchies, bureaucracies _. Your_ problem is,” she points at him with the hand holding her glass, “ _you_ never learnt how to be a successful bureaucrat.”

He points back at her, one gloved finger stabbing the air. “Gene Hunt is not a brown-noser.”

Alex sighs in exasperation. “I’m not talking about brown-nosing. I’m talking about making the system work for you. Figuring out who the players are, pulling strings and rising up through the ranks.”

He glowers at her. “What, like you ‘ave?”

“Well, yes, as it happens.” She smiles smugly and takes a lingering sip of Bollinger. “My boss loves me.”

“Lemme get this straight,” he says, leaning closer across the bar, “we are talkin’ about the man upstairs?”

“Well, there’s no Judaeo-Christian kind of God up there with a white beard and flowing robes. She’s more of a benevolent entity—”

 _“She_? Lord, the feminists really are takin’ over the joint…”

Alex smiles and leans in also, her tone turning more intimate. “It’s a woman’s world, Guv. And – much like many women, I imagine – she’s a bit of a fan of yours. She’s had her eye on you for years.”

“Entities ‘ave eyes?”

“Let’s just say…” she muses, swallowing a laugh, “she’s _aware_ of the good work you have been doing down here. And she’s far from impressed by the Devil making a pact with what was essentially a stupid kid—”

“Oi.”

“You know…” She draws in a breath, eyes running over his rumpled clothes and dishevelled hair and lined face, “these deals with the devil are far from iron-clad.”

Gene looks down, shuffling on the spot. “S’that right?”

She gives a little hum before going on. “And as for Keats’ behaviour, not even his boss was happy with how all that played out.”

He looks up again. “Keats isn’t…?”

“What?”

“Satan. The devil. The horned beast. Whatever you wanna call it. ”

“Keats? Oh God, no.” She folds an arm across her stomach and props her opposite elbow on top, lifting her glass to her lips. “Just a slimy little minion with delusions of grandeur. _He’s the one though_ ,” she forgets to sip, gesturing emphatically with her glass instead, “that’s had you stuck like a scarecrow, looking out over the same old field since 1953—”

“I like my field!” he protests too loudly.

“I know you do. I know…” Alex softens her tone and steps forward, carefully placing her glass on the wooden bartop. “And I know you still have work to do here. I just figured that,” she rolls her lips inwards before meeting his eyes, “if I had my choice of fields…I’d choose one adjacent to yours.”

He studies her a moment, head tipped slightly backwards. “I don’t need a minder, Drake.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He clears his throat and looks away. “You always did have a hard time trustin’ me.”

Her eyes trace the stubborn, familiar line of his jaw. “I trust you. I always did.”

He grunts under his breath. “Y’ had a funny way of showin’ it…”

Alex falls silent. She looks down, looks at her hands clutching the edge of the bench. She’d loosen her grip but then they’d shake, shake with the knowledge of what she has to say, shake with actually and finally saying it. Her body rocks back then forward, summoning up the nerve to plunge in.

When she looks up again, her voice barely trembles as she asks him, “D’you remember…you once asked me…when we’re at our most vulnerable?”

His gaze returns to her but he doesn’t immediately reply. “When we’re just out of love.”

She nods a few times, goes on softly, “Well, that might be true of the real world, but…in this world, we’re most vulnerable—”

“When we’ve just died,” he finishes for her, his tone sinking. He knows this, he should’ve thought of this. He should’ve protected her better, that was his whole purpose here.

“And the devil comes for you. And he hisses in your ear. He _knows_ what you hold dear, what you cling to, and he targets that. With you…” she reaches out, peeling back the left half of his jacket and pressing her fingertips to his thumping chest, “he targeted that big shiny sheriff’s badge you wear here, on the inside. With me…” she withdraws her hand, placing it on her own breast, over her heart, “he got to me through you. He knew I…” she falters but forces the word out – or something close to it, “ _cared_ …for you, knew I was too close. So close that my vision of you became…blurred.”

One corner of his mouth quirks up. “S’my best look, actually.”   

“You see, the Devil, he doesn’t attack where you’re weakest. There’s no sport in that for him. He attacks where you think you’re strongest, most sure. He takes the core of your being and turns it into a disease that eats at you from the inside. He takes your doubts and fears and magnifies them. Realises them.”

Gene plants his forearms on the bar, hunkering down and pinning her eyes. “And what exactly did you have to fear from me?”

She doesn’t avoid the intensity of his gaze, any more than she avoids the truth of her own response. “That you’d make me want to stay,” she admits, her voice small and soft. “That I would become so attached to you, to…everything in this world that I would forget Molly, waiting for me, on the other side.” She pauses, opens her mouth on another thought then hesitates. “And—”

“ _And_?” he insists, pressing against the bar like a bull at a gate.

“ _And_ ,” she goes on, after a galvanising breath, “I feared that great big, roaring lion within. I never could tell when you’d take a swipe at me with one of those giant paws, flattening me for getting too close.”

“Oh, c’mon, Drake…” he draws back, injects a little levity into his voice ‘cause all this honesty is giving him heartburn. “You’ve never backed down from a fight in your life. Any…of y’lives.”

She smiles at him – sadly, but still. “Nor did you. That’s what was so terrifying about us.”

“Terrifying, was it?” He tucks his thumbs into his belt, spine straight and chest puffed. “If I recall, it was damn fun, getting you all hot under the collar on a daily basis. And I suspect, you didn’t mind doin’ likewise.”

Her head slants sideways, her smile growing less melancholy and more affectionate. “It was also that. It was…fun.”   

He grunts his agreement, watches her pick up her glass and head around the bar. “And now you’ve come back for more of the same? As what? A barmaid?”

“I prefer restaurateur,” she replies, joining him on his side of the bar.

He pushes out a stool for her. “What’re y’gonna be, the patron saint of rigatoni?”

“Well…” she shrugs as she slips up onto it, “they do say that bartenders are like therapists. People unload their troubles, clear their heads, take home some good old-fashioned advice…”

He drags out the stool next to hers and plants his arse in it. “Hardly a good use for all your psychiatry babble now, is it?” He uses the wrong word deliberately. Just so he can see her smile and hear her say:

“Psychology.”

He shakes his head at his drink, mutters, “You’re a copper, Alex. You’ve got the mind of a copper, the instincts of a copper. You’ll go nuts,” he motions around them at the underground bar, “shut up in here, serving drinks to a bunch of blokes who’ll ogle your bits every time you walk away or lean over or…” his voice loses momentum as she shifts in her seat, slipping one leg over the other, “…cross y’legs…”

She shakes her head and drains her glass. “No. That was another life. I’m taking time away from all that. Now, I just want to spend my days with Molly and my nights here. With you.”

He avoids the softness of her tone, the implication of those last few words by reaching for her glass and refilling it. “How is she then? Your little girl?”

“She’s good.” Alex smiles, a light in her eyes. “She’s very well. She’s sixteen now, so grown up. I was at her birthday, I watched her blow out the candles.”     

He tries to imagine that, tries to picture her standing unseen on the outskirts of her daughter’s birthday party. Loved and missed yet irrevocably excluded. He remembers her voice on those tapes, the love and desperation in her tone whenever she said her daughter’s name. He tries to imagine what it must take for a mother to let go of a child. He’d never really thought of her as a mother, not until he heard those tapes. He’d never really understood that aspect of Alex Drake.

He struggles for the right thing to say now, ends up stammering, “So, you can visit her then from the, ah…?”

“The Overworld, yes. Once your clearance is high enough, you can move quite easily between worlds. To gain long-term residency is a little trickier though. Took a while but…” she smiles at him, tentative and hopeful, “I’m back.”

Gene bobs his head a few times. “Long-term…residency.”

“Hm,” she juts her chin upwards, “I’ve already moved in upstairs.”

“And _Luigi’s_ will—”

“Remain _Luigi’s_ ,” she finishes for him. “A tribute to all the good times we had here together. You, me, Shaz, Chris and Ray. All of whom are well, by the way, and send their regards.”

He keeps nodding, lets that pass. He’ll come back to those names later. His brain works like a dog with a bone. One conundrum at a time is enough. “So you’re here…”

“For as long as you are,” she answers fluidly.

He squints at her. “Forever?”

“No, it won’t be forever,” she says with her typical, easy confidence. Smoothing a palm down her crossed thigh, she murmurs knowingly, “See, you never read the fine print, did you?”

“Waste of bloody time.”

Her head shakes, the urgency in her voice mounting, “Well, I did. And not even the Devil can keep you here forever. You see, _you think_ I don’t have a puzzle here, a purpose. But I do. My mission is—”

He feels it before she says it. “To bring me to The Railway Arms.” If anyone could, it would be her.

She’s silent a moment. “Willingly.” Then she uncrosses her legs and leans in closer. “See, this – _this_ is what I do best, Gene. I help people who feel trapped, I help them find an escape route.”  
  
“What makes you think I want an escape route?”  
  
“It may take five years, it may take five-hundred,” she continues, eyes wide and watching every inscrutable twitch of his expression, “but eventually you _will_ take my hand and walk with me through that door. You can’t avoid the inevitable forever. Not in any life.”

“Can try.”

“But _why_ try? All of your friends are _there_ , waiting for you. You _don’t_ have to be alone. That’s what I’m here to prove to you.”

“And how d’you plan on provin’ it to me?” he drawls, his gaze roving over her and his glass at his lips. “How exactly you gonna wheedle me into givin’ up my empire for…whatever’s on the other side of that door?”

“Well.” She pauses, blinks, answers matter-of-factly, “I thought…sex. To start with. Lots and lots of sex.”

Halfway through a smug sip, Gene chokes on his drink, the bubbles going up his nose and making him guffaw an almighty sneeze.

Alex’s lips twist in amusement. Then, arching a brow, she asks him in a low voice, “You ever had sex with a bonafide angel?”

He runs a palm down his wrinkled suit jacket, adjusts his backside in his seat. “I think we both know that my, ah…experience in that arena is somewhat lackin’.” He draws in a breath, doesn’t look at her as he mutters grudgingly, “See, how it works down ‘ere—”

“I know how it works.”

“The reality revolves round the incoming copper—”

“I know.”

“So the rest of us…we’ve got backstories that—”

“That you don’t fully live out.”

“We only live—”

“Within the specific confines of the central character’s world, yes.”  
  
“So Mrs Hunt—”

“Never existed, I understand that.”

He whacks the bar with a fist, meets her all-knowing gaze with a flash of defiance. “Would you _ever_ let a bloke get a ruddy word in?”

“I apologise.” She dips her chin, waves a deferential hand. “Please. Go on.”

“Well, I’m _done_ now, ain’t I?!” 

He mutters under his breath as he starts yanking at his leather gloves, pulling them off and slapping them down on the bar. He figures it’s about time to give up the fight. She knows all his little secrets anyway. She knows he sold his soul to the Devil so he could play cowboy a little longer, so he could rescue other lost souls like his. Just as she knows that the whole game is getting old now, that being alone is getting old, _he_ is getting old. She also knows what he so badly wants, what he’s always wanted, right down in the depths of his underdeveloped soul. She knows he’s weak when it comes to her, knows that whatever she wants from him she’ll damn-well get. Even his soul. For whatever it’s ultimately worth. He can try to put up a fight. But he won’t win. They both know that much.       

Alex reaches for her drink, eyes wide as she mutters into the flute, “Haven’t gotten laid since 1953, no wonder you’re always so damn grouchy…”

Gene shoves his glass away, head bowed in defeat. “Never got laid before it neither.”

She nods quietly. “I figured.” Then leans in to tell him, “You know, it’s very unhealthy keeping your libido all bottled up like that—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, his pride and sarcasm simultaneously kicking in. “So forgive my ignorance, Miss Brilliant Bureaucrat, but answer me this, if Mrs Hunt wasn’t real—”

“Then what would make this real?” she again interrupts, “You and me?”

He grits his teeth. “Hit the nail.”

“Or indeed,” she goes on needlessly, her silky tone making him squirm in his seat, “any feelings we might possess for one another? Any sex we might choose to engage in? How, in fact, are we having this conversation if it’s not part of your current charge’s journey towards resolution and redemption?”

“Well, you’re not a troubled copper anymore, are you? Put here to work through your manifold issues before moving up and out.”

“ _Manifold_ —?”

“Is what I said, yeah.”

“Well—” she shoots him a glare before pressing on, “well, no, but like I said, it’s complex. It has to do with levels of reality, the priorities of—”

He grimaces and looks away. “Already sorry I asked.”

She examines him a moment, sitting there all proud and wounded, all robust and brittle. And it takes everything in her not to just reach out and soothe his wounded pride. Just like it took everything in her not to embrace him on sight, not to fix his unruly hair and kiss his unyielding lips. They had unfinished business to deal with first – things to say, confess, clear up. That ground has been covered though, or at least she hopes so. She hopes they’re getting to the point where they can just stop talking. Because she’s all talked out, all fought out. Her resistance is low, her impatience high and her desire beginning to take over. She hears it in her voice, feels the heat in her eyes as she assures her old boss:    

“It’s real. Trust me. If I walk through that door,” she tips her head at the doorway leading upstairs, “I don’t vanish. If we choose to take this upstairs, both of us would still exist. We would still experience everything as ourselves.”

Gene nods a few times then turns his steely gaze back on her. “Oright then, I’ll bite. What’s it like? Since you…sex with an angel? What, does everything happen in a halo of white light?”

She smiles. “Nothing so pure.”

“Glad to ‘ear it,” he rumbles.

Those blue eyes on her face, coupled with his gruff, lustful tone undo her, make her start rambling. “And “angel” is a bit of outmoded term, anyway. We prefer Celestial Intercessional Demi-Deity. Or CIDs for short. I’m a level three CID, whereas you are still a level one. Now normally,” she props an elbow on the bar and sinks a hand into her own hair, “fraternisation would not encouraged, especially since I’m on assignment here.”

Gene hums low in his throat, “Shame...”

She inches closer, eyes flicking up to his. “But then the Devil isn’t the only one with a few dirty tricks up his sleeve.”

He inches closer, eyes dropping to her mouth. “Tell me more about these dirty tricks.”    

Alex draws in a breath then slides off her stool. “Oh, I think I’d much rather show you…”

Her heels hit the floor and she reaches for his hand. It’s rough in hers, but compliant. It turns over, grasps hers and responds to her tug. He’s off his stool, body trailing hers in the direction of the stairs when she glances over her shoulder and stops.

“Ah—” She tips her head at the bar.

Gene looks back, “Right,” then gathers up their glasses and what’s left of the Bolly with his free hand.

Luigi’s favourite opera comes to a dramatic close, the tape clicking off and silence reigning as they ascend the stairs with slow, deliberate feet. The carpet is the same, maybe slightly faded, the colour of the walls, the pictures hanging on them. Everything’s the same as three years prior. It feels surreal to him, to be mounting those stairs again. But he can’t properly concentrate on the strangeness of it, not with her arse swishing side to side right in front of his face.

He shakes his head at its enduring magnificence. “Talk about levels of reality…”

Alex drops his hand, turning on the landing. “Meaning?”

Gene looks down, looks around. “Meanin’…I’m not sure I’m not gonna wake up any minute at me desk in a puddle of sweat and scotch.”

“Like I said,” she puts her back against the door, blindly finding and twisting the knob, “This is real. You can trust me on that.”

He wanders in behind her, bottle and glasses dangling from his hand. “Place looks…the same.”

Alex hums absently and moves straight to the tape player. She presses play and a song comes on, a song he recognises, a voice he recognises. A croony tone set against laidback guitar riffs. His ears perk up.

“S’that Herb Alpert?”

She turns to face him, holds out a hand. “Finally found a song of his you can dance to.”

“Well, you can dance to—”

“Slow-dance, Gene. Now,” she takes three steps forward, hand still stretched out, “…where were we?”

He stands still for a millisecond, his head catching up. Then his feet take action. He shuffles to the coffee table and puts down the champagne and the glasses. He straightens, faces her, takes her hand and sidles in close. He envelopes that hand in his, holds it close to his heart. His other hand slips around her waist, drawing her to him.

“About…” he feels her body settle against his, her breasts brush his chest and her arm curl about his shoulder, “…here.”

She lifts her eyes to his as they begin moving to the music. His look hazy and half-lidded, and she thinks _good_. She was trying to recreate a moment and it’s working – he’s right there with her, right back in that moment and right here in this one. She feels her skin heat under his gaze and her clothes rustle against his as they dance. She feels the erogenous zone at the base of her back thrill to have his warm palm pressed so close, his fingers spread against its sensitive curve. Letting her eyes drift shut, she lets him lead, lets him hold her and guide her and sway her. Her head sinks forward and she feels his lips brush her temple. Not kissing her like he once pressed kisses to her forehead. Just resting there, his breath puffing steadily against her skin.

Halfway through the second verse, she feels him take a deep breath, his stubble grazing her skin as he murmurs in a low, wry tone, “This song is terrible, Bolly.”

She keeps her eyes closed, her voice coming out languid and slurry. “I think it’s romantic. But maybe that’s just because I’m back here…slow-dancing in the arms…of the man I love.”

There’s a long pause in which they sway. Back and forth, then back and forth again. Herb serenades his lover with his horn while Gene works up the courage to point out:

“That’s the second time you’ve said that word.”

“Yes, it is,” she muses, lifting her face to slide along his. Her cheek caresses his, her nose nudges his temple and her lips brush his whiskers as she whispers in his ear, “And anytime you want to say it back, I’m all ears.”

His neck stiffens as he casts a glance over his shoulder. “I’m still waiting for a knock on that door.”

“Keats can’t get to us now,” she says, lips drifting along his jaw. “Not since I got God on our side.”

“Blimey…” He gulps, his step faltering and falling behind the beat of the music. “I’ve heard some names dropped in my time but that one about takes the cake. Talk about friends in high places...” He pulls her back to look at her, eyeing her down the length of his nose, “And what’s The Almighty’s interest in us mere mortals then?”

Alex smiles at him and snakes her arm further up his shoulder, fingers finding the thick blonde hair at the nape of his neck. “Haven’t you heard? God is Love. She _loves_ a happy ending…”

“You mean like,” his eyes drop to her lips, “boy gets girl?”

“Exactly. _And_ after extracting boy from his deal with the devil,” she extracts her other hand from his, letting it slide up his shoulder and into his hair as well, “girl…gets boy.”

He grunts, a visible shudder running down his spine. “They live…happily ever after then, do they?”

“Well…” she breathes, eyelashes dipping then rising at a dreamy pace, “did you honestly think I’d come back without a plan?”

He shakes his head, feels her arms tighten around his neck. “S’a good plan…” 

She nods once, whispers, “Thank you…”

“Bold…” he adds, gaze flitting between her eyes and her mouth.

She inches a little closer. “I hoped you’d like it...”

Her vision blurs and her heart thuds in her chest. Her lips part, her breath coming out in hopeful little pants.  She knows the final move will be up to her, just as it was the first and last time. She feels his hands on her back, boldly beginning to make their move. They urge her closer, sweeping upwards. One presses between her shoulderblades and her breasts tingle with the added pressure, at the solid heat of him against her. It brings her so close, so close that all she has to do is lean in a little, part her lips and graze them against his. She makes tentative contact once, twice, then tips her head to find a better angle. The third time she kisses him, her lips are more insistent, more confident – and she receives an immediate and fiery response.

Gene’s mouth clamps against hers and his whole body surges forward. It takes her breath away, makes her take a full step and a half backwards. His kiss is a little too urgent, a little too intense. His lips are closed and hard and still. Not that she minds. She knows how to soften up Gene Hunt. It’s kind of become her thing. She runs her hands over his shoulders, strokes his face, rifles through his hair. She moulds her body to his and opens her lips against his closed ones. She feels his bigger body relax, feels him release his breath and settle in her embrace. His hands venture further up, cupping her head as he kisses her. Then they move down, heading unerringly for her arse. She smiles into his kiss as one hand claims and clutches each cheek of her arse. When he gives her the firm squeeze he’s wanted to for years, she can’t help but throw back her head and emit a throaty laugh.

Gene takes this opportunity to attack her neck with his lips and tongue and teeth. She lets her head loll to one side, lets him have at her heated flesh, lets his kisses head south to the dip of her cleavage. His right hand whips around and seizes her right breast while his mouth molests the rapidly rising upper curve of the left. She arches into him and lifts one thigh to rub against the stiffness in his pants. He groans, long and low, and starts urgently fiddling with the little gold clasp at her waist. His fingers are too big though and, after a moment, he gives up with a huff.     

“How do I get this thing off?” he mutters, one hand clutching the thin red belt and giving her a full-body tug.

Alex snorts, “C’mon,” takes his hand and heads for the bedroom.

Once inside, she places a hand on his shoulder and leans down to slip off one red sandal. Gene’s hand goes to her waist, stabilising her as she switches feet and takes off her other shoe. She straightens, tosses her hair out of her face then steps back, facing him. Her hands move to the clasp at her waist, undoing the belt easily. He watches her lower a little hidden side zipper that he knows he never would’ve found. And then the pantsuit is gone, in a puddle on the floor, a puddle that her long, elegant legs are stepping out of and kicking away. Which is when he finally finds out he was right all along about her knickers. Fancy, they are – lacy and silky and flesh-coloured, just like her matching bra. The bra and the knickers and the flesh that they encase all move towards him, brush up against him. His hands are on her naked waist and her naked thigh is once more rubbing against his straining erection as she pulls his tie loose and throws it away. Then, green eyes locked on his, Alex slowly slides his jacket off his shoulders and pulls him towards the bed.

She sinks down on the edge of the mattress without ever removing her gaze from his. Her hands drift down his shirtfront to unbuckle his belt. “Take off your boots,” she whispers as she unzips him.  

He bends at the waist, shoves his pants down, his boots and socks off. And since he’s down there, he plants both hands on the mattress, one either side of her hips. His face moves in close, he feels her breath on his lips. Her head falls back, her nearly naked body scooting back on the bed as he advances. She reaches for him, hands gliding up his sides as he lowers himself on top of her. She cocks one leg up then the other so that he can nestle himself into the warm cradle of her thighs. And when he lets his weight fall onto her, he feels her release a long sigh. 

Gene frowns and glances down the length of her. “What, my too ‘eavy?”

“No,” she breathes, fingertips dusting up and down his spine. “No, I’m just…I’m happy.” She blinks, her eyes losing focus for a moment and one corner of her mouth quirking with some kind of sad irony. “I hope you’re happy too.”

He leans down and kisses her. “I’m over the moon, Bols.” When he pulls back, her eyes are focused again, focused on him, and her thumb is caressing his cheek. “Over the moon…” he says again then kisses her more deeply.  


* * *

  
That night, when he’s inside her for the third time, Alex will sigh again and again mutter that four-letter word he’s so damn scared of and so damn desperate for. When she does, he’ll slow his pace, lower his mouth to her ear and whisper with a hot, smug breath:

“ _Third time_.”

“Not that you’re counting,” she’ll murmur, a half-hearted hand swiping at his shoulder in a gesture that’s half caress and half reprimand. 

“Not that I’m counting,” he’ll reply, nipping her earlobe before resuming his rhythm.

“How many times,” she’ll pant between impassioned thrusts, “do I have to say it…before you forgive me?”

He will come to a stop then and just look down at her. Her hair will be a mess and her skin will gleam with sweat but, even in the half-dark, her eyes will shine, brimming with a multitude of emotions he’s only just beginning to comprehend. He’ll let out a breath, bow his head and kiss her, his mouth open and slow and tender.

“Once was enough for me, love.”

The word will settle between them. Then Alex will lift her head off the pillow and kiss him back, winding her arms around his neck and her legs about his body as she urges him to continue.

_END._

Find the rest of my A2A fanfic [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/812100/Mindy35).


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